


The Bondage of Sins

by toujours_nigel



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Chromatic Character, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of their one year, he's spent ten months already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bondage of Sins

They've been together ten months in France when he feels the change in their routines, in his complacent belief, in his knowledge that he will Floo home to his father's villa in Nice, and find Blaise in his workshop muttering curses at the cauldron, at the list of ingredients that cannot be procured for love or money, at the particular way in which Monsieur Lavaine insists they be cut and chopped and left alone for exactly twenty-three minutes till they turn a shade that must be painstakingly checked against a sample, do you believe yourself still in school, Monsieur Zabini? On the better days, when he does not lug rolls and rolls of parchment home, filled with the minutiae of financial exchanges and property sales, they settle to dinner at a decent hour, and talk till conversation fails.

It's achingly mundane, nothing like the excitement and constant fear of their earlier trysts, and he finds himself, if not quite revelling, then quietly content in the knowledge that he can sleep the full night beside Blaise, and, should he wake early enough, be greeted in the morning with a languorous kiss that keeps them both in bed longer than they'd thought to stay.

It's exhausting enough in its own way that he can easily rationalise not having noticed, earlier, how carefully Blaise holds himself in leash; Blaise always holds himself in leash, in the careless way of a powerful man who has never had to truly exert his strength, but knows it always at disposal, like a sheathed knife held along the spine, or a holstered wand within easy reach. He has always known Blaise powerful, and to feel him gentle under his hands like a leopard en couchant, run hands over the trembling muscles of back and thigh so strainingly still, is an extra rush of joy.

So perhaps he has not noticed the truth simply because the present state of matters suits him better, grants him pleasure; he's never pretended to be less than self-absorbed. But he's not blind, and waking on a Wednesday morning to find they've somehow ended the night's many thrashings-around with him twisted half under Blaise, and Blaise is looking at him with something of a covetous, tender glance—that's a little hard to miss, and his face twists with the disbelief Blaise takes for a bone-deep reluctance, and brushes dry lips across his forehead and leaves the bed.

It _is_ a bone-deep reluctance, and he feels no sudden urge to call Blaise back and roll over and present his arse, and would you please hold me down, sir, I've been such a bad _bad_ boy, to pay no attention to you. But he does lie thinking about it, while Blaise ducks into and out of the bathroom, and prepares and downs nearly a pot of coffee, and finally shoulders into the fireplace, and away. Wednesdays Blaise restocks his supplies at a shop on the crossing of Rue d'Alger and Avenue Notre Dame, and, occasionally, if Monsieur Laroche lets him off for an hour or two around noon, they lunch at L'Aromate. Today he turns up late, and is far too insouciant for Laroche's liking, and consequently forgoes lunch without too many regrets, and instead spends most of the day poring over a vast roll of parchment that leads him through the centuries to the original owner of an estate near the beach at Calais. It isn't precisely, that he's unwilling to go home, though he must admit that this is far from interesting, and normally he'd be nagging till Laroche muttered something insulting about the English, and threw him out.

He needs the time to think, he rationalises, though he has thought ten hours straight, and still, _still_, seeing Blaise in their living room is enough of a surprise to pull his shoulders back and spine straight, alert. Eighteen months now, since that day in Hogsmeade, and Blaise has never so much as backed him against a wall and held him there and distracted him with hands and mouth. And he has thought, when he has thought about it at all, that it had passed, that this new way is pleasing to Blaise as it is to him. He does not think it is less than pleasing, cannot think so, with all the evidence of every night they have the energy to spare for each other, and every morning they have the time. But he has never surprised that look on his face, till this morning—that slow, careful look, like a man stealing to a prized possession, content only to look, too afraid to touch lest he break it. Almost as though he has not shown, already, what Blaise is to him, as though he has not sent away all his father’s letters unanswered, and refused his mother’s visits.

***

 “Draco,” he says, and the candles are bright in the room behind him. He has stood some time, wondering. “Are you well?”

 “I don’t know,” he admits, simple as a child—all his machinations desert him, when it comes to this man—and walks to his chair to kneel before it and put his head in his lap, and close his eyes, and simply breathe. “I didn’t realise.”

 “What didn’t you realise, Draco mine?” There’s a laugh in the voice, and in the hand threading through his hair a light, amused touch. “Did you find a new heir for some tangled blood-line?”

 “Nothing so interesting,” he says, and remembers to look up, and meet Blaise’s eyes, and press his mouth to the caressing fingers. “And you? Did you procure what you were in need of?”

 “Found it in the Muggle market, in the end. Florist thought I was buying flowers for my girl.” They smile at each other, at that, and then Blaise pulls him up by the hand he’s threaded fingers through, and they leave their dinner to cool some little time while he twines hands in Blaise’s curls and tastes the sweet wine and sweeter potion he has been tasting—peppermint, and Ashwinder egg, and the melting flavour of the Tahitian Vanilla Monsieur Lavaine prefers to rose thorns.

 “Were you planning,” he asks, when his desire for air grows greater than his yearning, “to drug my wine with that?”

 Blaise laughs, easy and indulgent, and, now he’s looking, a little drunk, not enough to garble his speech, but enough to be easy and loose-limbed, one arm draped carelessly around his back, holding him in place. “Do I need to drug you, Draco mine? It’s news to me.”

 “And me,” he says, and in the morning filches the little vial from between the half-finished red wine and the wilting white flowers, and goes to haunt the Academie with its weight in his pockets.

***

 He drinks it down, sickly-sweet, with the éclairs Monsieur Laroche chooses to reward him with, for forsaking lunch twice in as many days—“Lover’s tiff, eh, little Malfoy?” he mocks, and Draco smiles and smiles and smiles till his face aches—and presses his face to the grain of the wood and breathes in and out, and forces his heart to slow to its usual pace. In the next hour or so, he manages to make it obey him. He does not have to do this, he isn't obligated, he does not need to. Drinking the potion commits him to nothing, not even to taking Blaise to bed—save that he will, anyway, save that he always does, always wants Blaise, and this potion warming his blood has nothing at all to do with engendering desire.

 “You took it,” Blaise says, low and accusing, and, hand tight on his wrist, “how much did you drink?”

 “All of it,” he admits, and laughs, and reaches up to bend Blaise’s head to his and taste his mouth. “Should I not have?”

 Blaise pulls back to look at him, dilated wide eyes and laughing mouth, and pulls him closer, arms wrapping around as to hide him. They stand there, together, while the dusk goes to night, and their rooms darken around them. “What,” Blaise asks, and there is a note of sorrow in his voice, “do I need to drug you for?”

 “I do not know,” he admits, his mouth against cloth, and beneath it the warm muscle, flesh-clothed, and knows he had the reason till he saw Blaise, and knows it can have been no reason at all, when he desires him so, when he can hardly stop himself, now, in his arms, and speak like a civil man. “You do not need it, we do not need it.”

 “And yet.”

“And yet,” he agrees, and works at Blaise’s collar till he can reach skin, putting lips and tongue and teeth to it till it purples and the hands on his waist tighten and drag him closer. “Would it not be wise,” he suggests, kissing the worried flesh in closed-mouth apology, "to take advantage of this amorousness, however induced?”

Blaise throws him off, then perversely gathers him close, one hand finding the slight curve of his hip, the other shaping to his jaw, thumb resting on his mouth. “Draco,” he says, and, suspicious now, “why?”

He sways closer, pulls the thumb into his mouth, eyes on Blaise’s face, and, he thinks, desire in his eyes. “Kiss me,” he breathes, letting the finger slip out, trace saliva over his mouth, and Blaise shrugs his suspicions visibly off and crushes their mouths together, hungry.

***

He cannot remember being so desirous, so simply, mindlessly hungry for Blaise’s skin and touch and mouth and the feel of him even through their clothes—he cannot think why he has never realised how beautiful Blaise is, because Blaise _is_, full mouth, and swooping eyelashes, and broad shoulders and raised, exquisitely-delicate collarbones, and wide heavy chest and dark nipples rising to the lightest touch of hand or mouth, and narrow waist and hip-bones curving out, and muscled thighs, and his cock standing between them, curving to his stomach. The curve of it fits easily to his palm, and he fits the other to the curve of Blaise’s skull and pulls him in for another kiss. “Want you.”

 Blaise smiles lazily at him, and smoothes hands down his back to fit them round his arse and drag him closer. “How d’you want me?”

 He presses closer still, blanketing himself in skin, and speaking against it, every syllable a newer kiss. “I want you on me,” he says, and knows he could never have without this melting desire. “I want your hands around my wrists and I want your weight on me.”

 Blaise shudders against him, and the arms cross around his waist again, cradling him. “Draco. Draco, you fool, it meant nothing.”

 “You asked,” he retorts, petulant, and pushes free of Blaise to lie on the bed, hands curved around the slats of the headboard, one knee pulled up. “I answered.” He turns his face away from the warm, disconcerting gaze, into the cool embrace of the sheets, and breathes and counts each breath.

 It takes ten breaths for Blaise to reach out a hand, moulding it to his knee and squeezing. “I don’t need this.”

 True enough, for what it is, but he can see how Blaise looks at him, like giving up what he most desires, and it draws him into laughter that it should be so difficult, when he wants so much, when he’ll turn himself inside-out for this man. “I never asked you that. D’you think I care what you need?” When he looks up, Blaise is still sitting quietly at the foot of their bed, staring as though he’s some strange potion to memorise and concoct. “I want you,” he says, tilts his hips up to present himself. “Surely that’s clear enough?”

 The space of five breaths, rasping loud in the room, and then Blaise’s weight against his side, nearly wrenching his hands free. “Stop it. I cannot promise I will be able to restrain myself if once we start.”

 He flicks eyes to Blaise’s erection rubbing against his hip as though entirely without conscious permission, and at Blaise’s jaw, set in determination, and his eyes dilated with desire. “So? And then let me find my clothes and walk from the house and find someone who will restrain me easily enough, and ask no questions.” He would not, could not, cannot, but he’s aroused enough and drugged enough that Blaise will believe it of him, and the idea seems to have some merit, even to him—to pull some stranger close and give over to him, and part, not knowing names. He feels Blaise go still beside him, and finds himself smiling, anticipatory.

 Then the ropes cord around his wrists, and Blaise sets hands around them, claiming, and rolls to straddle him. “Mine,” emphasised by a bite to his throat, Blaise’s hair dark feathers against his mouth, “Mine, don’t dare forget.” He arches against the bonds, tilting his head back—they have not done this in eighteen months, but this is how he learnt carnality, Blaise’s weight anchoring and effortlessly handling him, muffling spells around the bed against the possibility of intrusion. Here he can scream and instinct holds him silent, teeth tight on the flesh of his lip. Blaise looks up, smiling, unaffectedly happy, and his desire climbs another terrifying notch. “What will you give me?”

 “Anything,” he says, unclasping his teeth around a trickle of blood and pulling his torso up to catch Blaise’s mouth in a kiss before settling back, eyes closed against the pleasure of his skin, of their hips rocking lazily together, of Blaise’s hands claiming on his body, running the ladder of his ribs, twisting a nipple, slipping down to cup his arse. Too long, since they’ve done this—he’s never wanted mastery in this act. His father would shriek to know him any man’s catamite, but his father would shriek to know him an invert, either way, and it does not matter, in this red haze of pleasure, and Blaise’s mouth sucking kisses into his skin that will purple in the night, and remind him tomorrow, with every ache, how he is loved, how desired. “Everything,” he says, slitting open heavy-lidded eyes to watch Blaise palm his hip and urge him to coil one leg over his back. Blaise nods, smiling again—smiling still—and he waits for the muttered incantation to prepare him, and gets instead the press of fingers against his arse, Blaise’s eyes on his, forcing him to meet the gaze. “Everything,” he says again, and wraps fingers around the wood to hold himself from arching up at the first push inside.

 When Blaise withdraws his fingers and pushes slowly into him, he does arch, hips lifting and legs wrapping across Blaise’s waist, ankles poised at his hips, and coaxes Blaise down to lay their bodies together, Blaise’s arms around his shoulders and the fuck reduced to Blaise rocking in and out in shallow thrusts, never slipping entirely from him. “Mine,” he presses into mouth and throat and jaw, “mine, Draco, my beautiful boy, mine, gods, again, do that…”

 “Do that, move just so, oh, you beautiful little boy, Draco, Draco, you’re such a treasure, just like Cissy, and so beautiful, and you’re going to be braver than your father, yes, oh yes, my golden, beautiful Draco,” and her mouth on his, and the smell of her suffocating him, hands and mouth and cock in her, and her voice hoarse and breasts pressed to his mouth, like a child suckling, obscene, and he cannot move, cannot protest, can barely breathe with the taste of her filling his mouth, and he wants to scream and thrash against her, and she only smiles when he tries, and says, “do not fight me, Draco, you know better, you know how much you love this, oh yes, my beautiful boy, my Draco…”

 “Draco.” Slap against his side, at least she hasn't used her nails, but he tries to twist away, still, and finds he cannot. “Draco!”

 “Please. Please, no, please.” It’s no use, no point protesting, but she likes, sometimes, to pretend she can be soft and tender, and that would be such a relief, such a respite, that he thinks he could pretend at desire—he does feel desire, and that is yet more monstrous, that he should warp her body to Blaise’s and want her as though she’s him.

 Then he realises, with a hot rush of shame, that it _is_ Blaise, and he has simply proved his own weakness again. He waits while Blaise painstakingly undoes the ropes holding him, and cautiously takes the wrists in his hands and rubs blood back into them. He closes his eyes against all the apologies he wants to make, against the sight of Blaise incandescent with rage handling him like a Faberge egg—infinitely precious and infinitely fragile, and opens them to realise that he is crying, helpless to stop the tears and blessedly silent. “I am sorry,” he says, pulling his wrists and eyes from Blaise, “I had not thought it would go over so badly.”

 He tries to sit up, move away, with vague, unformed ideas of locking himself in his study slicing through the haze of grief—desire has taken leave, and he feels as sober as if drenched suddenly in ice. Blaise catches him at the shoulder and elbow and drags him back till they’re clutching at each other like children afraid of bugbears hidden in the dark. It is like that day in the Three Broomsticks again, and nothing changed in eighteen months, and the bitch dead two years, and his abuse three years gone. And nothing changed, and he is good for nothing but muttering apologies. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I thought I could do better.”

 Blaise smoothes a hand over his spine, and pulls him closer, hand and mouth in his hair, and urges him to tuck his chin in the crook of neck and shoulder, and holds him quiet till the tears stop as easily as they started, and he begins to feel something over than shame and a creeping dread. "I did not need this from you," he says, "I did not ask it, nor expect it. I shall not deny," he says, and pauses on an indrawn breath and Draco can hear his heart hammering through skin and flesh and bone, "that I wanted this, or that I've missed it. But not like this, not with you unwilling. I cannot think," he says, and Draco flinches at the disappointment, at the barely-leashed rage in his voice, "why you thought I would accept this."

You did, he thinks and does not say, and breathes against Blaise's skin dark against his mouth. You did accept it, and you did want it, and we would have been fine, had you simply not called me beautiful, had you simply not called me your boy, we would have been fine, and maybe I could have given you some happiness. It's been long enough that I should be able to do this. A misery to let the bitch have this, to let her take you from me even in so small a way, I desire it too, this way in which we learned intimacy, I miss it too, your weight on mine, it was never anything but comfort. Such a pity to let the bitch have this, old slut won't even lie quiet in her grave, will you, dear Auntie Bella?

Blaise is rocking him now, arms around his back at waist and neck, and speaks as though to fill the silence, as though worried by it. "Draco, you fool, I'm not rejecting you, I'm not saying I didn't want it, I'm not even saying we shouldn't try, you know I'm not saying that, but Draco mine, you're terrified, and I cannot, I _shall not_ hurt you, d'you understand, Draco?"

He bends his head in acquisence to every question and timorous statement, every aquisence a press of lips to skin, and thinks, I am twenty in a month, and Laroche will be done with me in two, and in three I shall be married, perhaps in four. In four months I shall be married, and forced to pretend to desire whatever girl they shackle me to, and seek release in her breasts and cunt, and I shall never see you like this again, in my arms and bed, and I did not even give you this, and where is the time for me to try this later, where the fuck is the time, and I have squandered it all away on trifles, and I have never even given you what you wanted, no proof that I love you.

I love you, he thinks, and pulls Blaise down for a kiss.


End file.
